Thestrals
by 800 words of heaven
Summary: Three eras. Three people. Three stories. One thing in common. Thestrals
1. Sirius

I am Sirius Black.

And I can see thestrals.

I was sixteen when I saw that muggle die.

My mother had commanded my presence at Grimmauld Place for the Christmas holidays. I didn't know why. The only thing we had left in common was our mutual hate for each other.

It was Christmas eve, and the entire noble and most ancient House of Black had gathered at my aunt's house to celebrate the happy occasion. It was strange to me, how a family so full of hatred had room for love for each other.

And it must be love, because I could think of no other reason why each person tolerated the other.

I had wandered away from the ballroom, into the bowels of the great house when I'd heard muffled sobs. Curious, I'd approached a door, slightly ajar, down the darkened corridor and peaked cautiously inside.

The bubbles of champagne threatened to travel back up my throat at the sight that greeted me.

A small, dark figure hunched in the middle of the floor, her hair a matted sheet across her back. I couldn't see her face, and I was glad of it.

Two other figures stood behind her. One was my cousin Bellatrix, the other, his long blond hair shining in the jarringly merry firelight, Lucius Malfoy.

"Crucio," Malfoy murmured, with an almost casual flick of his wand.

The muggle didn't have the strength to scream anymore. She convulsed once, twice, thrice, before slumping again.

I watched as she took her dying breaths. I watched as my cousin's face lit with a fierce joy. I watched as Malfoy's lips twitched in distaste.

And I left.

I was gone from Grimmauld Place by the next morning, Christmas day, vowing never to return.

Mrs Potter opened the door, and with one look at the dark hollows under my eyes, ushered me inside to the kitchen.

I sunk down at my customary seat at the dining table, my knapsack dropping with a dull thud.

Mr Potter poured a steaming mug of tea, and I murmured my thanks, avoiding eye contact with the three Potters that stared with concern.

"So you've done it, then," Prongs' voice broke the gathering silence.

I nodded.

"Left for good."

I nodded again. It wasn't a question. I wasn't going back. Ever.

But then the reality of the situation fell on me like a ton of rocks, my shoulders slumping in defeat. I'd come here, to the Potters, without thinking.

This was safe. This was home.

But it wasn't. "Could I –?" I began, but my voice became stuck in my throat.

I tried again. "Could I stay here? Just for a few days, until I –"

"Nonsense!" Mrs Potter cut in.

"You're staying with us from now on, son," Mr Potter said firmly.

I finally looked up at the three faces around me, and something in my chest cracked back into place, easing the pain a little.

I am Sirius Black.

And I am not alone.


	2. Neville

You are Neville Longbottom.

And you can see thestrals.

You were six when you watched your grandfather die.

You held his hand as he breathed his last breaths. He wheezed for you to be brave, to be strong.

Those were his last words. _Be brave, be strong, Neville._

You feel the guilt settle into the pit of your stomach.

It doesn't leave for many years.

You were eleven when you stood up to those who were bullying you.

 _Be brave, be strong._

The words rattle around your head as you hop to the Common Room, mocking you. You see the red and gold of Gryffindor, and the guilt weighs heavily. You fall over in exhaustion; from jumping across half the castle, or carrying your cowardice for five years, you don't know.

You were twelve when you confronted your friends in the darkness. They didn't really think much of you, you knew, but you had to try and stop them. You had to try and save Gryffindor from falling even more from grace. You had to try and save them from the trouble they'd get themselves into.

It didn't work. They didn't listen, and once again, you were defeated.

 _Be brave, be strong_.

The words roll through your mind as Professor Dumbledore awards you the points for an act of bravery that you didn't commit, winning Gryffindor the House Cup.

Your cowardice stops you from admitting your shame.

You were fifteen when you joined Dumbledore's army.

You knew you were terrible, but you were willing to try.

You were willing to pour your blood, sweat, and tears into helping your school, your friends, your family.

 _Be brave, be strong._

You were not brave, you were not strong, but you'd move heaven and earth to fight for what you believed.

You were sixteen when you fought at the Ministry. Your blood pounded in your ears, your nose ached, and your wand felt clumsy between your fingers.

You stood in silence as you watched someone die for the second time, and only one thought flashed through your mind.

 _Be brave, be strong_.

You didn't think you could, but for the sake of your friends, you'd try.

You were seventeen when the responsibility of the rebellion at Hogwarts fell to you.

You put on a brave face, and spoke in a strong voice, but you quivered inside. They'd find out. They'd all find out that you were a fraud. You only pretended, but you hoped that when the truth came out they'd understand that you did it for them. You did it to help your school, help your friends, help your family.

You were eighteen when you hobble to confront Voldemort.

You were beaten, you were broken, but you were not dead. No, you'd only die when you gave up.

You spoke in defiance, and you were swept aside, forgotten.

But you picked up the sword, and you cut off the snake's head.

You are Neville Longbottom.

And you are brave, you are strong.


	3. Hugo

He is Hugo Weasley.

And he can see thestrals.

He was terrified of them, and he hated that he could see them.

They were a reminder of a sadness he'd rather forget.

He saw them for the first time in second year, when he travelled to the castle in the carriages. To everyone else, they were drawn by something invisible, something intangible.

But he saw them for what they were. They were death. They were despair.

He didn't tell anyone that he knew what drew the carriages, for fear of his friends' pity. It was one thing to know that his beloved grandmother had passed away last year; it was completely another to know that he was there with her, crying as she smiled at him one last time.

He was glad that she'd left this world with a smile.

He turned away from them, and climbed into the carriage, trying to hide from his grief and pain.

He successfully ignored them for years, only having to see them when he caught the carriages to and from school. As the years went on, the sharpness of his grief dulled, and with it, the intensity of his dislike for the vile creatures.

He knew it couldn't last forever.

He was wandering through the Forest one afternoon, the steel grey of the sky hidden behind the dense canopy of the towering evergreens. He knew the paths well, preferring to spend most of his time here, the sounds of natural industry enveloping him in their complete disregard of his presence. He liked the Forest, a place where he was completely alone. With a family as large as his, it was a blessing.

He was in sixth year, and had the afternoon off. He'd followed his favourite trail to a small clearing, where rocky outcrops were almost covered by a deep green sea of grass. It was a place which was almost always unoccupied, animals choosing to inhabit it at times when he was not present.

Not this time.

He stopped short, just outside the tree-line, and stared.

A thestral stood in the centre of the clearing, almost peacefully tearing a hunk of raw meat with its fangs. A foal stood beside its mother and stared back at Hugo.

His breath shortened and his heart raced. Images of his grandmother flashed before his eyes.

The foal approached him, its overlarge batlike wings folded gracefully against its body.

He was sure that he'd sprouted roots, because he couldn't move.

The young thestral reached him, and sniffed his pockets, finding the apple he'd shoved into one for a snack.

As if in a dream, Hugo reached into his pocket and pulled out the apple. He offered it to the young one on his flat palm.

It took it and munched happily. After finishing, it gave his still outstretched hand a lick with its sandpapery tongue.

He didn't realise he was crying until a tear rolled down his collar.

He is Hugo Weasley.

And he loves thestrals.


End file.
